Strangers in the Night
by ginnyharry.crucio
Summary: 1981. It's a wonder how a conversation with a stranger could be oddly life-affirming. Mondler major AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Set in 1980s. Major AU and product of my extreme joblessness.**

* * *

I

* * *

Chandler M. Bing. The name spoke for itself.

Chandler m. (CHAND-lər). Historically taken from an occupational surname which meant "candle seller" in Middle English, ultimately from Old French. Often held responsible for his lack of charisma while interacting with women.

M. Stood for Muriel. Medieval English form of a Celtic name which was probably related to the Irish name Muirgel. The Normans brought it to England from Brittany. In the modern era it was popularized by a character from Dinah Craik's novel 'John Halifax, Gentleman' (1856). A middle name intended to be kept as a secret to the grave.

Bing. Of uncertain derivation; probably a topographic name for someone living near a bing, a northern dialect word recorded with the senses 'heap', 'bin', 'receptacle' (probably from Old Norse _bingr_ 'stall'). In his own words, it was Gaelic for "Thy turkey's done."

He happened to be just this regular guy amongst other regular guys (and sometimes girls), typing away, sitting in a claustrophobic cubicle amidst the noise of furious typewriters, surviving on gallons of decaffeinated coffee and dry humour.

The work was despicable; he had been living in the east of Manhattan at a shared ground-floor apartment – a typical bin of a place – that rumbled whenever the subway passed from underneath. He survived by his wit, he would've succeeded at his office but he declined promotions after promotions just so he could maintain a detachment from his workplace. His colleagues often glanced in and smiled for a 'hello' but he was certain no one even knew his first name.

"You need some lovin'," Joey would say, "and a better job. And a sandwich," as he'd throw a cold packed one at him, while chomping down on his own, never minding the big splotch of marinara sauce that had fallen on his shirt. All of this while Chandler had grumbled and crumpled up on the tattered couch, his hat on his face, saving him from the hot glow of the bulb.

Joseph 'Joey' Tribbiani was one of his roommates, a frankly good-looking Hispanic trying to make it big in the Broadway. He had a big heart and appetite (that mysteriously didn't affect his physique) and seven Catholic sisters scattered all around in the city. He tended to bring a lot of women home, and thereby the walls often rumbled without a subway passing, much to Chandler's and the other roommate's annoyance.

To evade the embarrassing noises during the shifts of Joey's lovemaking, it was best to just roam around the city streets for some fresh air. New York was beautiful at night. Especially when it rains, he loved walking on the pavement against the office crowd, listening to the hardly-audible jazzy romantic tunes from the roadside cafés. The bridge lights falling on the wet glassy road, and the swarm of headlights zooming in and out of his line of sight, made it look like an acid trip. The restless water below was interesting too; once a while he got this strange urge to climb his way up the railing and jump. Just for the fun of it.

It was one such night of Joey love, walking alone in the rain by the flash of headlights, when his eyes met a stranger's.

She immediately looked away, and continued with what she was doing; she had a foot on the bar and her fingers clasping the mesh of the railing, gazing down into the water. Chandler jogged towards her; it didn't take him much time to realise what was on her mind.

"Don't do it," he whispered, looking around for any signs of eavesdropping.

She was taken aback. She stared at him again; her big blue eyes wide, watering at the go, her wingtip liner half melted into the rain. "I'm not doing anything."

"I've been there. I know what you're trying to do. Don't jump."

She didn't reply, went back to gazing into the water. "Go away."

"I'm telling ya, in 1981 jumping off the Manhattan Bridge isn't a good idea. There are probably lifeguards at the banks and police officers in civil clothes overhearing every word of our conversation."

"It doesn't matter," she sobbed, something triggering a fresh onslaught of tears, "I'm still gonna jump."

"You're not."

"Why _not_!?" it was a frustrated cry, even as he backed off a step at such fierceness.

"Because you're so pretty."

It was a damned stupid thing to say, and despite the rain he sensed heat pooling at his neck. Embarrassed, he gave her a ghost of a goofy smile. Surprisingly, it worked. She seemed on fence whether to smile or not, but inched towards the former. "What did you say?"

"I said you're pretty," he repeated innocuously, and cleared his throat, "and – and also, also – _ahh_ well, this fence is too high to jump over. Before you make it, someone will catch you and pull you down by the leg – and then, beat me into pulp because I stood right beside and egged you on." At that point, he noticed two old men suspiciously eyeing them, so he put on a loud boisterous act, "Oh Viola, didn't I say you can catch the dolphins in the river only at daytime!"

She caught on the hint and put her foot down, and let go of the railing. "Viola?"

"It'll be a nice coincidence if that actually is your name."

She laughed this time. "You're funny."

"Funny is all I have, ma'am. Although usually it's people laughing at me than with me."

She grinned through her tears, "Okay."

"Guess the suicide's off for today, then?"

He realised he touched a raw nerve, but words had left his mouth and the damage was done. She winced and began to walk furiously through the crowd, her arms wrapped around herself. Cursing his big mouth, he ran after her, tried to slow her down with a tap on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. Maybe we can talk?"

She paused and stared up again, her eyes still brimming with tears. His insides knotted into a guilty twist. She pulled her hair behind her ears, jet black and dishevelled in the rain. She was shivering. "About what?"

"You're cold," he said, as he pulled off his overcoat and handed it over, "It's kind of soggy on the outside but warm enough." She hesitated, but then she was too cold to really decline.

"Thanks."

"Never mention it. I'm Chandler."

"That's – that's an unusual name."

"Really, then you should hear my telephone number."

She smiled. "So where d'you live?"

"Oh you know – just a taxi ride away."

"You just _can't_ stop hitting on me, can you?" It sounded like a joke. He chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head, "Well, you know..."

He trailed off as she wasn't listening; instead she was staring into space. They were almost at the end of the bridge. She grabbed the overcoat tighter to herself, as she hauled off to the edge of the pavement to hail a cab. "It's late," she mumbled, "I should be heading home."

"Are you alright?" he asked sincerely.

"I'm better now. Thanks anyway," she said, as an oncoming taxi halted right in front of them. He helped her in.

"Oh – um, your overcoat?"

"You keep it, you need it more."

"No, I certainly can't –"

"I'm telling you."

"Are you sure?"

"You need it documented?"

He guessed that was the last laugh they'd share this lifetime. He peered into the taxi for the final time before the engine kick-started and it readied to depart, "And hey, what is your name?"

"Monica."

* * *

It was 12:30 at night when he pushed open the door and was welcomed by a coincidental five-minute rumble of the subway. Joey was on the couch, trying to make some sense out of the fat old box they called their TV, and the other roommate – Phoebe – was on the mat, her back against the couch, strumming her guitar.

Joey called out to him as soon as he entered, "You look like you got mugged," he tried to deduce, "but you're smiling like you got laid."

"Somewhere in between," Chandler walked across the space and slumped on the sofa.

"So, what happened?" teased Phoebe, "Met a girl?"

"Yeah, kind of."

" _Kind_ _of_?" Joey snickered, "What does 'kind of' mean?"

Chandler wasn't sure if he wanted to explain, but he nevertheless went into a trance. It all came back to him in glowing images; she was beautiful, _so_ beautiful – her wet ruffled black hair that came to her shoulders, and the drenched red dress dripping water, that stuck to her petite figure as she clasped onto the railing, the smudged liner that brought pathos to her big blue eyes – he hadn't realised he had observed her this minutely until now.

"Nah," he shrugged, "it wasn't anything romantic."

"I would've believed you if you weren't practically lovesick right now."

"I'm not – will you two get off my back?" With it, he crumbled into a ball and dug deeper into the couch, his back to the TV. "I'm not getting into this affair business again," came a muffled afterword.

"Give it a rest, Chandler," said Joey, "Don't tell me you're still mournin' after the Kathy girl."

"Or Janice," hummed Phoebe, which earned her a deadpan glare.

Reminders of his romantic failures were not what he needed right then. He didn't know how on earth he ended up dating this woman – Janice – thrice, given everytime he ran away for the sake of his surviving brain cells, and might've needed a hearing aid had he stayed for a day or two more, given her obnoxious laughter. She had been nothing new; over the years the more rejection he faced, the more cynical and superficial he became. There was always a reason: big nostrils, big gums, didn't laugh at his jokes, Ringo being their favourite Beatle... and the list didn't end.

Kathy was, however, different. Exceptionally pretty and way out of his league, she was this young actress Joey had met in an acting workshop. Whilst seeing Joey, she had fallen for Chandler – and caused quite a hissy fit between the friends – but soon the drama passed and Chandler had begun to believe that she was the one. That was, until she slept with another actor she had been simulating sex on stage and Chandler was left to collect the remainder of the ragged-edged pieces of his broken heart.

"Look," he raised his hands in surrender, "I don't even know her full name. I don't know anything about her. In a city this big, how can I know we'll bump into each other again? And she was really upset; I don't think she even considered me that way..."

Phoebe began on cue, strumming her guitar to an off-tune version of _Strangers in the Night_ , even as Chandler sighed in exasperation. "Yes," he said dryly, "Let me call up Frank Sinatra and ask him what to do. Could you pass me the number please?"

She giggled, but didn't budge. " _Up to the moment when we said our first hello little did we know, love was just a glance away_ ," even as the melody got Joey snoozing at the other end of the couch, she grinned up at the TV no one cared about, "You know what, I already like her!"

"Phoebe," he chastised her, "You don't even know her _name_."

"You won't understand, I'm sensing this strong vibe from your aura..."

Even though she was a masseuse at a small-scale massage parlour uptown, she was more popular around the area as the edgy psychic. Chandler never believed in stuff like these, but her optimism sometimes made him genuinely want to believe her. Having previously lived on the streets, with her mother dying young and a step-brother living somewhere far in the city, he wondered where all the hope came from.

" _It turned out so right for strangers in the night..._ "

Monica. It was a wonder how a conversation with a stranger could be oddly life-affirming. He was good too; he was funny, didn't scare her off (well, he kind of did, but he managed it with some damage control); they connected well. He wondered what had upset her so much that she wanted to kill herself. He wished they could've talked more. In any case, Monica didn't seem like the person going off his mind anytime soon.

It was a strange, peaceful quiet of the night. Phoebe was lazily plucking the strings of the guitar, Joey was snoring, and something was running on the TV. Chandler reached out and nudged her.

"You really think I'll see her again?"

Phoebe looked at him, as if she had exhausted all her wise words, but then put her guitar aside and grinned. "When it's meant to be, it's meant to be."

* * *

 **Well, well. I don't know why I'm writing this, but I promise I'll keep this on the lighter romantic-comedy side. So, what d'you think? :]**


	2. Chapter 2

II

* * *

They were right. He was lovesick.

Lovesick adj. (ˈlʌv-sɪk). In love, or missing the person one loves, so much that one was unable to act normally. Scientific study on lovesickness had found that those in love experience a kind of high similar to that caused by illicit drugs like cocaine. Lay somewhere between Hi-wa itck and limerence, but never as unhealthy. Rhymed with broomstick, chick flick, cowlick, nitpick, drop-kick, et cetera.

And yet, life as of then was a montage of _Singin' in the Rain_ , swinging around lamp posts, waving strangers hello, parading on the pavement twirling a long umbrella about his finger, happily dancing with it in a manner a normal person wouldn't wish to be caught dead in – that was, until a cop would stop him, grinning into the sky and watching the rain gently pat on his face.

"Mr. Bing, I'm afraid we'll have to let you go."

Ah, the smack of the impact of coming back to earth. Chandler blinked confusedly in the peach-coloured four-walled cabin of his workplace. "Uh, sorry?"

His boss scratched his scruffy beard, then his neck. He was undoubtedly uncomfortable, but made a resolve to speak it out. "Apparently," his boss began, in a low wavering voice, "We don't need such a – such a large – large workforce at the moment." Then cleared his throat and marked the end of his short speech.

Something told Chandler that was not it. Was it his dry attitude? Was it his denying promotions after promotions, that probably made the boss assume he was a giant snob? Was it – was it his appreciative smirking during the workers' seminar the day before yesterday – when his mind was actually re-running the episode where Monica called him funny? Did his boss, by any chance, catch him dancing in the rain, and immediately made arrangements to incarcerate him to some mental hospital?

"I still like your jokes, though," was the boss's way to console, before he turned his back and left.

Joey, however, was all the more encouraging when Chandler furiously ranted the whole afternoon about the short sudden escapade. His back to the couch and feet on the centre table, he cast a glance at Chandler's panicked figure trotting to and fro across the room, and took a pause before delivering his words of wisdom.

"So, big deal?" Joey began, "Chandler, you always hated the job. You, out of all people, can do much better than that typewriter thingy. You needed the push and now you gotta let it go!"

Let it go? He was twenty-eight and unemployed, the love of his life had probably forgotten by then that he existed, he lived in a three-room fragile flat that right now rumbled yet again in second opinion. Chandler shrugged, eyes at the ceiling. "Yeah, whatever."

"You know, the French girl in the bar thought you're nice," Joey flashed him a bright, sly smile, "I was thinking, maybe a little – _cha-chinggg_ – French style?"

Chandler rendered him a dead, bored gaze and he backtracked.

"Alright, I'll see my agent and see if we can get you a job."

"For the love of God Joey, I can't act."

"Yeah, but maybe you can do somethin' with your funny genes. Maybe you can play the silly guy the heroine runs out on in her wedding or somethin'."

Chandler considered, with a sardonic pout. "Yeah, I guess that sounds like a therapy for my self-esteem."

* * *

After listening to some of Phoebe's zany career ideas ("Flower seller, massage assistant, ooh, _ooh_ , toast chef!"), it didn't seem too bad that Chandler set off with Joey early next morning to see his agent. It was a clear sunny day, with a brisk bustling crowd rushing past them, even as Chandler grimly followed his Italian buddy, hands shoved in his pockets.

The Estelle Leonard Agency was a one-room dilapidated office amidst clouds of cigarette smoke, where they settled uncomfortably opposite an old blonde bipolar lady with bizarrely painted lips, and a hunched smile (was it a smile, was it a scowl – he guessed he'd know in the next episode). Chandler looked out of the window and inwardly cursed himself; what was he _even_ doing there?

"Any previous experience?" asked the lady.

"Well, I can type," he deadpanned on instinct. Somehow that made Joey burst into a hysterical bout of (fake) laughter, a laughter that just didn't seem to stop.

"See, I told ya," Joey toned it down, and continued to giggle, "He's funny, really funny! His last job was typin', but he said in a way so you'd think he can _act_ typin'. Maybe he could do somethin' in the funny business?"

The Estelle lady raised an eyebrow, staring over her red-rimmed glasses. Chandler sank into his chair in embarrassment.

"Look kiddo," she scowled (smiled?) again, scratching the nest of her fluffy blonde hair (wig?) and lighting a fresh cigarette, "this funny business isn't that funny. You work on this edge of a thin railroad when you often have to take off your shirt and cha-cha with a bunch of lap dogs. Comprende?"

Chandler looked at her for a whole one minute. "... What?"

"Nothing, nothing," she flipped through a notebook, "just some words of advice to newbies."

Joey flashed an uncomfortable ghost of a chuckle. Chandler rolled his eyes so hard he wondered whether they had turned inside out. "Okay," he tapped on the desk, "I'll just – take a moment. I gotta go – get some fresh air, so..." And with it, he took off.

Chandler sucked in a deep breath of relief the moment he came out of the constricted cage of a room with cottony clouds of cigarette smoke. Granted, he too smoked a while back, but there was a limit a human could take. He wondered if he should go in and drag Joey out if he wanted to see him alive and well.

He descended a flight of rickety stairs and pushed past a bunch of show-business people, walked out under the sunny sky and stretched. Indeed, not a shred of cloud. He screwed his brows together into the sunlight and looked ahead into the busy street, when his eyes caught a familiar figure around the corner. His heart skipped a beat.

"Monica?"

He did a double take. Unless it was his mind playing games on him, it was her. The dark eyes, the red mouth, the black hair that came up to the shoulders. This time in a blue jacket and high heels, oversized sunglasses hanging at the parting of her shirt. She seemed to be waiting for somebody.

"Monica!" he yelled almost instinctively.

She couldn't hear him over the din of the traffic. He set off towards her, like a moth to flame – right through the busy road like a hypnotised zombie, inviting curses, causing collisions, escaping death. He was almost there, hurtling about, gasping for breath – when she turned round the corner. He darted along the pavement, often stuck unwittingly against the flow of the crowd, yelling her name. Meanwhile, a car arrived – she put on her sunglasses, still unaware of his presence, got in – and left.

Well, wasn't his luck a bitch.

His shoulders slumped, he returned to square one, sighing, and found Joey waiting for him on the pavement under the shade of the agent's office. Joey beamed as soon as he caught the sight of him. "Where did'ja go?"

He shrugged, "Nothing. Nowhere. So what's up? Anything better than topless cha-cha on the floor with lap dogs?"

Chandler thought he was probably rambling. He was still thinking about her. Thinking about that night when she smiled through her tears and called him funny. "Yeah," said Joey brightly, happily oblivious to his lovesick friend, "She told me about this really moody role – some really sexy guy the girl falls for before he's cut out of her life. Eh?"

Chandler grimaced. "Yeah that doesn't really sound like me."

"Dude, you gotta start _somewhere_."

"Joey," he tried to explain, as they began a walk towards the Third Avenue, "It totally sounds like something you should do, c'mon."

"Uh, actually," Joey shifted uncomfortably in his position, "I don't think I'll be there auditioning that day. I gotta help Phoebe with some – stuff, you know."

"What stuff?"

"Uh..."

" _Joey_."

"Okay," he surrendered, "I can't lie, okay! I just thought – you know, if I back out it'll be one man less."

And that was good ol' Joey. Chandler grinned, patting the guy on the shoulder, "That's so sweet, Joe. But seriously, you should go. Trust me, I'll be as good as a lamp post when it comes to being moody."

"Yeah," he scoffed, "You're _always_ moody. Oh, oh," he bulged his eyes out at a sudden realisation, as if hit by a freight train, "there was this other thing she told me about. This producer guy wants to make a new show and is auditioning for a new stand-up comedian – it sounded kinda dull so it just slipped out of my mind, ya know."

Chandler gave him an exasperated, bored gaze. "Well, you _do_ know your priorities, don't you, Joe."

* * *

Joey tended to get excited really fast. As soon as the insight dawned on him that the apparently dull offer could kick-start Chandler perfectly into the business, it spurred him on to an extent that three hours later, he still hadn't stopped nagging about it. To Chandler's grief, they were about to enter their favourite bar when he poked his arm again.

"What happened now, Joe?" he asked, his voice strained, his face murderous.

"Why don't ya rehearse that joke once? You know, the one with the baby on the bus?"

Chandler groaned even as he pushed open the glass door, and trotted into the jazzy air. "Maybe the one that'll really help me get through the audition is you stopping talking about it."

Joey glared, but nonetheless listened. Meanwhile, they were greeted by an attractive blonde bartender, who – if Chandler wasn't mistaken – tucked her hair back her ear seductively as soon as they stepped in, and bent forth so as to give them a full view of her cleavage. Joey winked not-so-subtly; Chandler awkwardly settled on a stool and fixed his gaze at the crowd instead. " _Bonjour_ _Messieurs_ ," she piped, "You're early today."

Joey tapped on the counter. "You know what to get us."

As soon as she disappeared behind the closet, Joey reached out to him, trying to whisper over the music. "I told ya. She likes you."

Chandler gave him a sideways stare, "And that'll remain the punchline of the year." Somebody liking him over Joey was more improbable to him than Galileo's theories to the church.

"C'mon, seriously, she's pretty, she's nice to talk to, and she's French – I bet she knows how to kiss – _owwwh_."

" _Owwwh_ what?"

"I see what's goin' on."

Chandler stiffened. "What's going on?"

"Good god, Chandler, you're still not over her, are ya?"

"Over who?"

"The girl on the bridge that night."

"It's not that," he lied, "I'm just not – not interested in – Céline." He hoped he didn't get the bartender's name wrong – but then again, he was conversing with Joey, who couldn't name an ex to save his life.

Returning to the subject, Joey didn't need much convincing. With a curious pout, he double-checked, "You sure?"

"Yeah."

"So," he mumbled, "if you're not interested in her, can I ask her out?"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, would mean the walls would rumble tonight. And Chandler would have to take a walk around the city. He gulped down his drink at a go, not sure if he was too happy about it.

* * *

It wasn't raining _or_ romantic tonight.

The music from the roadside cafés was jarring, as if the guitars got unstrung or something; the lights were too bright, and the blaring horns of the cars gave him a headache; them whooshing past and whipping up a storm of dust and smoke sent him into a coughing fit, even as he kept walking.

Maybe it was all about the perspective.

He was at the bridge now, leaning, his forehead against the mesh of the railing, staring into the dancing lights in the palpitating water. He checked his watch; it was only 9 o' clock by then. He sighed; if only he could dull out the world and fall asleep at the tail-end of a sweet dream.

"Don't jump."

Chandler jumped at the voice: it was mimicking him, and all too recognizable. He turned; his heart throbbed and he sensed himself going weak at his knees – he'd never, ever jump over a railing that was pretty much holding all his weight right then. The night's dinner somersaulting in his stomach, he tried to get past himself and elicit a normal reaction.

"Hi," he smiled nervously, "Wouldn't have expected to see you again."

She was beaming, "Yeah, I just saw you and," with it, she shuffled into her carry bag, pulling out a very familiar folded piece of rag, "I had to return your overcoat."

"Oh that, I nearly forgot about it."

"Oh," her face fell for a moment, "I made a couple of rounds last week... I thought I might catch you here again."

He adjusted his collar even as it burned through his neck. "Well, you found me."

"I sure did."

He put up a little skit. "So, your name was... Monica, right?" That was correct, he hadn't obsessed at _all_ since the last time they met.

"Yeah, that night was something, wasn't it."

"Yes it was. Are you okay now?"

"Yeah, I'm getting better. You?"

"As far as I remember I wasn't the one about to leap over the railing," he joked. He was a little scared about how his jibe might be received, but then she laughed it off. He followed on, "I tend to say more dumb things before 9 a.m than most people say all day."

She quipped, "Trust me, after two meets, I think I got that idea, Chandler."

So she remembered his name. And there was something about the way she pronounced it – she glossed over the 'd', never really said it. Suddenly he liked it that way. If only that would help with the sweating. She was a brisk, happy walker; it was hard to be this nervous and carefree all the same while tagging along.

"You know, we're almost at the end of the bridge. How about we get you a taxi home?"

Monica stopped short on her tracks. A treble of panic rose in his throat like bile. Did he offend her? Fists clenched inside his pockets, he waited for a response, as she gazed at the ground and traced the concrete with her foot.

"I was – I was hoping if we could spend a little more time."

Well, what did he know, could this _be_ any more romantic? The guitars were restrung, the road lights were soothing, the car horns were almost music, the whooshing storm of dust and smoke had been calmed by a light drizzle. He grinned, wider than he had ever before. To even more of his surprise, she grinned back. The yellow streetlight bouncing off her hair, her bright blue eyes shining.

"So, what d'you say, let's get some coffee?"

* * *

 **Hello, children. I know I should've been uploading the other story since it's hanging at the brink of completion, but this was already half-written so...**

 **Anyway, I'll upload a chapter of The Second Coming next. And btw, I'm not sure what I'm doing with this one so I'm actually open to plot suggestions. PM me if you want! Or review! :***


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